


The Nursemaids

by gardnerhill



Series: Oubliette [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Prompt Fic, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a tiger needs a little assist from the cubs now and then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nursemaids

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2015 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #6, Quotation Prompt. "Imitate the actions of a tiger." --Shakespeare, Henry V. This story is a continuation of my [Oubliette](http://archiveofourown.org/series/134745) series. (Series is H/W, but that relationship does not appear in this story.)

“Bloody nannies is what we are,” Bobbie said disgustedly around her cigar stub, grimy chin on her even dirtier crossed forearms jutting out of her ill-fitting shirt on the windowsill opposite the shanty with a  line of equally grubby people out the door. “Dunno why Mr. Holmes even lets ‘im come out our way if ‘e’s no good fightin’.”  
  
“Mr. ‘Olmes give us a shillin each to stay wiv ‘im.” Big George wiped his nose on his sleeve for the hundredth time that hour. He could only look out the window by standing on a large box. “A ‘ole shillin. Each.”  
  
Mac tested his knife-blade against his thumb. “Doc can fight – I seen ‘im fight like a tiger, oncet, when three was after ‘is bag. Bam bam bam, and they was down by the time I ran arfway down the block to ‘im. Just like a bloody tiger in the zoo, ‘e was.”  
  
“Then why us?” Bobbie squirmed, clearly itching to go back to the pool parlour or pub to spend her gains. “Why’d Mr. ‘Olmes tell us to follow him?”  
  
“River Street gang got ‘im a while back – took a ‘ole pack o’ those dogs to pull that tiger down.” Mac stowed his knife and found a cigarette on his person. “Give us a light, Bobs.”  
  
Bobbie squawked an oath not normally emitted from the mouths of well-bred ladies. “Jake bloody Willerton’s lot? Why the ‘ell’s he still alive?”  
  
Mac lit his cigarette with a match deftly stolen from his fellow Irregular’s pocket, and with an insouciance vainly attempted by men old enough to shave. “Peelers got Jake that night and let the Doc go. Doc was bad sick after that for a long time. And the second Doc’s ribs was better and ‘e wasn’t coughing like a ‘ole charity ward, back ‘e comes here. That’s when ‘Imself sent for us.”  
  
A very loud, very wet sniff. “Gave us a ‘ole shillin. Each.”  
  
“’Cos the Doc’s too stupid to stay away?” Bobbie clenched her teeth around the cigar as a few people left the shanty, and the line moved a few people forward. “Even the fucking peelers stay outta ‘ere. And Doc ain’t gettin’ no money from that lot.”  
  
Mac exhaled his puff of smoke with a laugh. “Axed Mr. ‘Olmes that myself. Told ‘im he’s gotta keep Doc from coming here. Says ‘e _wishes_ ‘e could make Doc stop comin’ here. But Doc’s a doc – ‘e sees someone hurt ‘e just tries to fix it. Even some tosser what beat Mr. ‘Olmes and tried to shoot ‘im – first thing Doc does when the tosser’s hurt is get down and try to fix him.”  
  
“Bloody nutter,” Bobbie sneered.  
  
“’E’s a _brave_ bloody nutter.”  
  
Shouts from the shanty. A woman screaming, small children’s cries. Over it all, a man’s drunken roar.  
  
Mac spit out his cigarette end. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, that’s Bob Whitstable! George! Go!”  
  
The tiny boy was out the door in the next moment – the only thing that ran faster than his nose was his legs.  
  
Mac and Bobbie were not far behind the messenger boy, pushing through the clamoring throng; Bobbie and Mac both had their knives out and grim looks on their faces. “Move!” Mac roared at the line of patients – mostly women and children – who moved out of his way, frightened by the sound.  
  
The two forced their way into the tiny hovel and nearly tripped over a mountain of a body, poorly lit by the one oil lamp on a table by the open doctor’s bag: the aforementioned Bob Whitstable, in the unconscious flesh. His haggard wife and a mob of their brats hovered round, their screaming now a ragged chorus of sobs.  
  
“Good afternoon, Mac, Miss Knight – excuse me, Bobbie.” Dr. Watson was still standing over the insensate brute, fists unclenching. He was the calmest person in the hovel. “Your concern is appreciated but not needed at the present time. This was only one bully threatening a woman, and I cannot abide bullies.” He sighed. “No doubt Big George is halfway to Baker Street by now with the missive that I’m once again in mortal danger.”  
  
Mac shrugged, grinning. “Big George says exactly what we tell ‘im. ‘E’ll say ‘It’s Bob Whitstable’ and that’s it.”  
  
The doctor grinned ruefully himself. “In that case, I may be safe. Mr. Holmes always does say that that little fellow is more accurate than a telegram. And he knows I can hold my own against one opponent.”  
  
“You hit Da!” one small Whitstable cried. “I hate you!” His mother shushed him.  
  
“He tried to hit your mother, Master … er, Bill?” A nod from the shaking mother. “Bill. I will not allow such things in my waiting room. Your mother and I were finishing our discussion of her upcoming treatment and your father tried to stop me. She wants to keep feeding you as much as you’re getting now.”  
  
Bobbie nodded sagely. “Like me sister on the game. She goes to a quack so she won’t have no more kids neither.”  
  
Dr. Watson blinked in comical reaction to a girl Bobbie’s age knowing such things. “Er. That is rather Mrs. Whitstable’s business, Bobbie. If you two are quite finished galloping to my rescue, I am sure there are one or two people outside still waiting for my assistance.”  
  
More like twelve or thirteen, but Mac didn’t say anything. Besides, even if Mr. Holmes didn’t come down at Big George’s message, the kid would be back soon anyway, with a pocketful of scones from the old lady – no way in hell was that little titch eating them all himself.  
  
Just one thing to do before leaving.  
  
Mac went outside and whistled. “You! And you!” He pointed to two men in the line and jerked his chin.  
  
Between the coughing man, the man with the gashed arm, Mac, Bobbie, and two or three Whitstables, they dragged Bob out of the doctor’s den.  
  
“Thank you, Mac,” said the courteous tiger. “Next?”


End file.
